Whispers
by forty five
Summary: After the war, the students of Hogwarts and required to repeat a year due to the unsavory handling of education during the Death Eater's occupation. Despite the ending of the conflict, there is still hatred. Even that of an old friend. /character death, 8th year, slight drarry.


_It's Malfoy!_

_What's he doing here?_

_I thought he got sent to Azkaban._

_Nah; the Ministry wouldn't do that._

_The Ministry doesn't play favorites._

_Yeah, they don't even like the Malfoys anymore._

_Does anyone?_

_Doubt it._

Perfect, perfect Draco; don't shed a tear. Just hold your chin up, straighten your spine; walk past the whispers and the pointed index fingers and the stares. Don't dare to take the stairs two steps at a time. Just walk easily—gracefully, as you always do. Don't mind the first years that jump out of their skin at the sight of you. Don't mind the fifth and sixth years that continue to point and whisper.

Hufflepuffs scamper away from you—not out of fear, but mostly out of disgust.

Ravenclaws stare, wise eyes boring holes into your skin and setting you aflame.

Gryffindors might pity you, or they might not. Either way, they don't give you a passing glance.

Slytherins, your housemates, keep their eyes glued to the floor. You decide to join them.

Don't do it, Draco. Tilt your chin back up. Walk proudly. Since when did rumors break your ego? Since when did whispers make you cringe and shy away from the spotlight? Since when did simple gossips make you want to hide away and never come back? Stride; move one foot at a time—not too quickly, mind you. One, two, three, four; easy now, don't let them block your path.

Enter the Great Hall. Don't hesitate, you twit; just do it. They fall silent for a moment. You shuffle away and trot too quickly to the Slytherin table.

_I hate Slytherins._

_I always knew they were no good._

_What did you expect? You-Know-Who was a Slytherin._

_I bet you some of them still follow him._

_Who'd be stupid enough to do that?_

_The Slytherins, of course!_

Don't hang your head. Just ignore it. It's simply gossip. You've dealt with it before—being a Malfoy meant being talked about, whether it be good or bad. Recite potions ingredients, why don't you? If you must distract yourself, please do something productive. No, do not think about that girl's arse. Potions, Draco, potions. Start with whatever you can remember—don't forget to chew with your mouth closed—and go from there.

_Oi, whatever happened to that other one?_

_What other one?_

_Malfoy's other mate. The short, stocky one._

_You mean Crabbe?_

_Yeah, him._

_He died in the last battle._

Don't even think about it. That wasn't your fault. Crabbe was asking for it. He couldn't control that Fiendfyre and there was nothing you could've done about it. He was stupid enough to cast it—and stupid enough not to be able to control it and nearly kill not only you, but Goyle and the Golden Trio as well. You're lucky to be alive and no thanks to him for it. Now sit up straight and use those manners your parents taught you. Smaller bites; you can't leave too soon.

No one really talks to you anymore, do they, Draco? You're lonely, aren't you? Pansy tries, doesn't she? Or are you too consumed by yourself to notice her again? She's looking at you from across the table—no! Don't look at her!—she wants to talk. Perhaps in the Common Room? Anywhere alone, would be best. Maybe she'll talk some sense into you. Or maybe she'll just drive you madder.

You do talk to Pansy at one point or another and she's worried and asks how you've been and how your parents are and if you're okay. You answer blandly and with the answers she wants to hear; you keep your eyes downcast slightly, but play it off as looking down to meet her eyes. She doesn't really believe you but goes along with it and tells you that you should go on the Hogsmeade trip—she and a few other Slytherins are going. You agree hesitantly and make a mental note to fish your scarf and gloves from the bottom of your trunk.

_I can't believe they let him back in the school._

_Didn't he help kill Dumbledore?_

_His entire family's a bad lot. I don't trust him._

_Maybe someone'll off him soon._

_That's terrible!_

_You know you're hoping for it too._

It's starting to get ridiculous—you and I both know this. But chin up, kid. You don't have much longer. You can do this, Draco. Just ignore it. It's not that hard—just start reciting those potion ingredients again. What were we at? Fire Slug Spores?

The Hogsmeade trip is soon and you're dreading it. You'll have to face people you've managed to avoid all term and you're scared of what they'll say—more scared than you are of what people are already saying. But you'll be fine. You've survived thus far, haven't you?

Potter spots you in Hogsmeade. You're alone, but he's with Granger and Weasley. He leaves them and jogs over to you—and you freeze, blood running colder than the snow falling around you.

"Hey, Mal—Draco," he says. You return with a feeble greeting and shove your hands in the pockets of your coat. Potter seems just as awkward as you and you begin to shuffle back toward whatever building is closest.

"Wait—Draco, I think we should talk." Potter steps forward and looks as if he's going to grab your arm to stop you. You see Granger and Weasley watching from afar, their eyes glued to you rather than Harry. It's as if they see you as a threat to him.

"What is there to talk about?" you ask with a ghost of your old sneer.

"What happened in the Room of—" Harry begins, but you march off before he can finish. You don't want to even think about what happened, much less talk about it. Harry doesn't chase after you and instead goes back to his friends, assuring them that nothing was amiss. Neither believed him, but they didn't question it either. You find Pansy with a few other Slytherin girls in the first building you turn into; she calls you over and holds onto your arm while she talks. Whenever you shift her grip tightens slightly like she's afraid to lose you.

You slink away eventually, when the slim brunette mentions that Pansy had wanted to buy something earlier but hadn't. You walk back into the cold and take in the bliss of solitude. You enjoy the peace and brush the thin layer of snow off a nearby bench and take a seat. You don't move when the crunch of snow underneath boots breaks the chilly silence.

"Draco."

It's Potter again. You don't walk off this time, so he talks and you listen. He goes on about how he was sorry—though, what he's apologizing for, you can't figure. He continues on with his sincere apologies until you cut him off. _Finally._

"Potter," you say evenly. "Quit apologizing."

His babbling ceases and he gives you an incredulous look—as if he was expecting to have to grovel at your feet to gain whatever forgiveness he sought.

"Wha…?" a rather unintelligent noise leaves his lips and his brow furrows.

"Whatever you're set on apologizing for, I don't know what it is." You answer his confusion. "Now quit saying sorry."

Potter steps forward, puts his hands in his pockets and mumbles something.

"What was that?" you ask.

"Nothing," he replies.

He stands and you sit in silence for a long while. Snow has begun to pile in small clumps on your knees and shoulders. Harry constantly brushes the snow from his before returning his gloveless hands to his pockets. His cheeks and nose are turning pink, you notice.

_What's Harry Potter doing talking to Malfoy?_

_It doesn't look like they're talking._

_But what's he doing out there?_

_I dunno. Why don't you ask him?_

_You ask him!_

When you look at the group of passing Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, their whispers simply become more hushed; but when Harry looks, they silence immediately and rush into the nearest building.

"Wanna grab a couple Butterbeers?" Potter asks. He looks like he wants to get out of the cold more than anything but is too _polite_ to leave you in the cold. You agree—what harm could it cause? And besides, the other students seem to leave you alone with Harry around.

The Three Broomsticks falls silent when you and Harry enter. Draco, you foolish child. What were you thinking? The whispers start up again but you can't decipher each one. Ignore it; ignore it! You follow Harry and try to remember how many spider's eggs it takes to complete a certain type of protecting potion.

You don't understand why Harry is being kind. You do have a hunch, though, that he's trying to settle old rivalries considering the war is over and Voldemort is gone for good. Or maybe he's just being too nice for his own good and trying to be on everybody's side at once. He's stupid—he saw what playing for both teams did to Severus, didn't he?

Potter orders the Butterbeers—you can't find your voice, anyway—and tries to stir up small talk when they arrive. He skirts around anything Hogwarts related, preferring to talk about the upcoming Quidditch game. He's no longer the captain (the Weasley girl, his former girlfriend, is, he tells you), but he's once again the Seeker. When you ask why he tells you, rather forlornly, that last year's Seeker had been killed during the Final Battle.

Many had been killed in the Final Battle. Family, friends… complete strangers. A madman fell and the Boy Who Lived triumphed once more. What, was it the fourth time he'd single-handedly defeated some figment of the Dark Lord? So you try not to care.

You and Potter talk more and you realize that he's actually not that terrible and kind of friendly despite the awkward setting of your conversation. People whisper both more and less while you're with Potter; more because you're with him and less because he keeps shooting that stern look across the room at them.

You feel foolish—well, you _are_ foolish—and childish with Harry protecting you like this. When you finish your Butterbeer, you mumble a thanks along with something along the lines of repaying the favor before you leave. It's rather rude—but you _did_ thank him like a good boy would.

_Potter and Malfoy?_

_Yeah; they were drinking Butterbeer together._

_Why?_

_Who knows._

_Potter's weird sometimes. _

_Yeah, but it's still Malfoy. They never got on._

You quicken your pace as you walk past Honeydukes; a group of giggly fourth year girls suddenly quiet when you pass. You reach the deserted part of town, where some residents used to live but don't anymore, and face a situation worse than having a Butterbeer with Potter. Goyle, your old _pal_, stands under the shelter of a pavilion. Your blood runs cold when he looks at you. But not quite as cold as when you'd first seen Potter.

"Draco," he says.

"Greg," you mimic, toying with the green and silver scarf hanging from around your neck.

Calm down, Draco. It's just Greg—you've known him forever. Perhaps longer. Now look at him—and don't you dare run away.

"Haven't seen you since…" Greg trails off, but keeps his harsh gaze stuck on you. You shift uncomfortably under the glower, but nod understandingly.

"Yeah," you murmur. "It's been a while."

"A while?" Greg scoffs. You jerk back, taken aback by Greg's sudden scorn; when you flinch, your mouth takes on a damaged half-grimace you've grown accustom to donning as of late. You wonder when Greg became so cynical and angry, but it's not really a recent addition to his personality. He must've always been an angry kid—like the child you've become. Greg enjoyed killing, torturing; he _liked_ being a Death Eater. He called you a coward and a prat for hating it. Said that you should've been _honored_ to have been chosen to kill Dumbledore, to have a second chance to redeem your family's standing with the Dark Lord.

"A while is a week—a while is a month, at most." Greg says bitterly, his voice rising and you realize he's never yelled at you before. "I haven't seen you 'round in half a year."

You're a terrible person and a worse friend. Really, the only person from your old group that you still talk to is Pansy—and sometimes Blaise, but that's only when he's in a talkative mood or you actually see him around. You're a liar if you try to say you haven't thought of Vincent or Greg in the past half year. They were your best mates, despite the way you'd treated them when you were younger. When Vincent died it was like you never wanted to see Greg again—and seeing him has brought back some painful memories.

Silence fills the air. Snow falls, collecting on your shoulders like it had when you sat and Potter stood in silence not too long ago.

"I know," you murmur and look away—I told you not to! Look back at him.

"You're pathetic, Draco." He speaks with such venom that your eyes widen and your entire body tenses. Greg seems to refrain from spitting on you—not many have; you're lucky he doesn't hurl on you for what you've done—and leaves you to collect snow and freeze. You stand and listen to his boots crunch against the snow. You even count his steps until you deem he's far enough away for you to move again.

Are you scared? Scared of _Greg_? He's your best mate—well, he used to be, anyway. You were a prat. Apologize to him and maybe he won't curse you. And Merlin knows he won't hesitate when he does.

You don't apologize, though, and it's not unexpected. You've never been one to apologize—not even to Potter or Weasley when they saved your life not once but twice. You can't recall even thanking them for it. 'Course, Weasley had punched you in the face the second time around, but that's mostly your fault too. You wonder if your mother's lie to the Dark Lord would at least make up for how much of a prat you've been to them—well, Potter, mostly. Your mother didn't save Weasley, only Potter. Not directly, at least.

You move eventually and your muscles groan at the sudden stirring; it's so cold your fingers and toes have gone numb. You don't bother with a warming charm. It's useless, really. Not like you should really care about your fingers or toes. No one else does—why should you?

_Hey, there's Malfoy again._

_Where do you think he disappeared off to?_

_Aren't the ruins that way? The ones from the battle?_

_He shouldn't be hanging 'round there._

_Yeah—his kind made those ruins. _

You wince. _Your kind. _After all this time, still a Death Eater. Still a killer. Still an attacker and a horrible, horrible person. Still impossible to like, much less love, and still impossible to deserve life. So many people hate you and you know it's true. You hate your reflection as much as they hate your being. It hurts, sure, but that's expected. You couldn't have hoped that it would be easy returning to Hogwarts after the Death Eaters did so much damage.

The name Malfoy means Death Eater whether you like it or not. Your father chose that path and it became your problem as well. Your mother may have hated it just as much as you—perhaps more so when you were pulled into the craziness that was servitude of the Dark Lord and performing the nastiest of his deeds—but even she did nothing to stop his reign of terror on your life. She tried to shelter you, sure, but to her a pained, living son was better than a dead one. He would've killed you had Severus not killed Dumbledore.

In the end, you owe your life to too many; to Potter, to Weasley, to Granger, to Severus. If it weren't for them you'd be dead many times over and sometimes you just wish that they hadn't tried so hard to keep you alive. It sure would help now, wouldn't it? Everyone would be happier if you were gone—if Severus hadn't helped you, Dumbledore would be alive. Many peoples' lives would've been spared.

And many people would be happier today. Because, right now, everyone knows you as Draco Malfoy, Death Eater and almost-killer.

Scornful glares make your skin sting; you continue walking, past the whispering students and their harsh stares. No matter how often it happens, you never grow used to the glares and occasional insults thrown across corridors and classrooms and—in this case—the snow covered streets of Hogsmeade.

"Kill anyone lately, Malfoy?" a Gryffindor shouts; of course, only a Gryffindor would have the bullocks to insult you to your face. The kid might be a fourth year—younger than you, at least, but stockier than you and a few inches shorter. Must be a beater, you reckon and realize that you haven't been to a Quidditch match in too long.

"Hey!" the stocky Gryffindor shouts. "I'm talking to you, Death Eater!"

He throws a snowball at the back of your head and his friends laugh loudly and in excess. Remains of the snowball—it had a lump of ice in the center, you note scathingly—slide down the nape of your neck and down the back of your robes. You still stride forward—keep your head up; if you're going to ignore that, you have to at least act as if it doesn't bother you. If you ignore him, he'll get bored.

Ha. Like hell he will. You never did.

An abrupt shove on your shoulder blades sends you into the snow face first. The stocky Gryffindor stands above you, laughing along with his stupid friends and all the other stupid kids who are passing by through the cold and the snow. He spits on you, first, and it lands in a glob on your cheek. You sneer, moving to wipe the spit from your skin, but he kicks your ribs before you can. It holds enough force to hitch your breath and push the air from your lungs.

_Hey, look, Baker's givin' Malfoy a thrashing!_

_The prat deserves it._

_He's not even fighting back._

_See, he is a prat! _

_Baker's really whaling on him._

_So? Malfoy had it coming!_

"Oi!"

The sudden voice falters Baker's beating of punches and kicks just long enough for you to roll out of his reach and get onto your knees, ready to jump to your feet. You fall back onto your arse when you see who's defending you. Smooth, Malfoy; as if you didn't already look like a fool. Just fall on your arse for Potter, why don't you?

"This doesn't concern you, Potter." Baker grumbles, cracking his knuckles.

"Considering I'm on the Quidditch team, I think it does. You know that fighting gets you suspended for three matches." Potter says.

"You think that McGonagall is going to take pity on _this_?" Baker tries to spit on you again, but falls short, so he kicks snow in your face instead. His lackeys laugh. You fume silently and blood rushes to your cheeks, hot enough to melt the snow against your skin. You wipe the snow from your face and pass off the flush as being caused by the bitter cold.

"She's the headmistress," Potter states. "Whether she likes him or not, whether he was a Death Eater or not, he's her responsibility. And don't think I won't be informing her of who started the fight and who was mercilessly beating."

Baker throws out beginnings of words momentarily, sounding like a blubbering, blundering idiot, before he huffs and crosses his arms. He curses at Potter and storms off, lackeys in tow. Almost like you, Draco, being shown up by Potter and storming off with your friends. Those friends won't even speak to you now. Greg hates you, Pansy worries too much and Blaise is… well, Blaise.

"Malfoy? Oi, Malfoy."

Your eyes snap up abruptly, meeting Potter's. He looks as if he's been trying to get your attention for some time and is now dangerously close and appears concerned.

"What?" you snap. Eloquent, Draco. Grateful. That's the best way to thank the man who just saved you from more public harassment and a worse beating from that troll of a fourth year.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

"What do you care?" you ask back. He shrugs.

"It looked like Baker got you pretty good, there." Potter states. "Plus," he adds on a whim, "your lip's bleeding."

You bring one cold hand to your mouth involuntarily. Surely enough, warm, red blood paints your fingertips.

"So it is," you murmur, wiping your fingers on your trousers. "I've seen too much of you today, Potter," you say, louder. He laughs.

"I could say the same, Malfoy," he retorts good-naturedly. You want to sneer, but remember that he just saved your arse from a trip to the Hospital Wing and utter destruction of what little dignity you have left. So, you sit there, instead, staring at him almost incredulously, waiting for him to say something else or leave. He stares back. The snow is beginning to sink into your robes, numbing your skin and you almost shiver.

_Malfoy and Potter together again?_

_Maybe it's coincidence. _

_Well, Potter did just rescue Malfoy's sorry arse._

_He always does that. Save people._

_It must be a Potter thing._

You don't even feel an ounce of remorse over the fact that now they aren't only gossiping about you, but about Potter as well. He's asking for it, you reason, spending time with you all of a sudden. He's only being nice, really, Draco. He's just seven years too late, that's all. Just too late. Like you were too late to realize that being a Death Eater wasn't all sunshine and butterflies. Like you were too late to realize that you couldn't kill Dumbledore. Like you were too late to realize that, regardless of what you tried or how hard you tried, your family would fall apart. Better than dead, though, right?

"Is there a reason why you're still here, Potter?" A bit of that old you comes out, talking to Harry like you hate him. Potter shrugs, but doesn't leave. Instead, the rest of the Golden Trio comes over, curious.

"Did you punch Malfoy, mate?" the Weasley asks.

"Harry!" Granger exclaims.

"I didn't punch Malfoy," he says, finally looking away from you and to his friends. "Quite the opposite, actually."

He turns back to you, offers his hand. You stand on your own, just to spite him, and brush the snow from your clothes. Blood drips from your chin, soaking into the pure white of the blanket of snow beneath your feet. You kick the snow up, hiding the blood, and wipe your chin. Weasley mumbles something about how Potter should've punched you and Granger smacks his arm with the back of her hand. Potter stares at you—you almost think that he's offended that you declined his help or maybe he's shocked at how callous you're acting toward him. He shouldn't be surprised. All these years and he expects you to be nice to him because he stopped some bloke from punching your face in? _And saved your life more than once and defeated the darkest wizard of the century._

You stalk off, away from those green eyes and glasses and hair that he should really run a comb through once in a while. You can feel his eyes on your back as you walk off. You can't tell if Weasley and Granger are staring, too, but you know for sure that Potter is watching you leave without acknowledging him or his friends. You decide to head back to the castle early. You cut through a deserted part of Hogsmeade—only deserted because _your kind_ killed off the residents of that area—and take a long shortcut back to Hogwarts.

_Isn't that—?_

_Shut up! He's looking!_

_Maybe he'll hex us._

_Who knows? _

_Why'd they let him back?_

_Shush! _

The first years lingering around the entrance of the castle whisper loudly when you walk by; they point at you and swat each others' hands away, all staring straight at you. Their gazes don't bore into you like Potter's had; they aren't glaring or staring with such intensity that it's uncomfortable. Potter's always had that sort of violent stare that's far from a glower but still burns through layers of clothing and skin.

You go to the common room. It's not much warmer there than it is down at Hogsmeade, but you prefer the dungeons' damp musk to the village's bitter snow. You change into dry clothes, absently listing off potions ingredients in the back of your head. Slughorn's got a test coming up. All these potions ingredients you're listing off should come in handy. You should start on your homework. Just because it's Hogsmeade weekend doesn't mean you get to slack off.

You sit by the fire with your books and parchment and quill. _Draco Malfoy_ is the only thing scrawled onto the parchment. You can't concentrate on the blasted transfiguration essay you should've finished ages ago. You read a line from your textbook and begin to write your first sentence—_snap._ Your quill breaks and that's all it takes to throw you off the edge. You jump up, throw your textbook across the room and drop your quill and knock over your ink. You kick the chair you were sitting in and knock it over and stamp your feet and punch the wall. You flip the coffee table over and let out a loud, angry snarl.

Your knuckles are bleeding and your hand throbs. A dark bruise is already forming beneath your skin. You stand eventually, using your unhurt hand to wave your wand and clean up the mess you made. You go to the hospital wing and Madam Pomfrey tuts, scolding you to be more careful, but mends your hand anyway. You go for a wander around the castle, avoiding Peeves but walking straight through a ghost. You barely notice the unpleasant coldness.

Pansy sits in the common room, in the same chair you had sat in, when you reenter. She rushes over when she sees you, hugs you and asks where you've been and why you were seen talking to Potter on more than one occasion. When you look down and don't answer, she grows agitated.

"How can you talk to him but not your friends!" she shouts, whacking your arm the way Granger had hit Weasley. "_He_ was never there for you! _I_ have always been there for you!"

You still won't say anything.

"Why is he better than me, Draco?" she asks. "Why is he better than Blaise or Goyle?"

She starts crying. Over Potter. Over _you._ You still don't do anything and you're a prat for it.

"Well, Draco?" her voice cracks and you think she sounds pathetic. You don't voice your thoughts, though, and instead just stare at her. She stares back, eyes watery and cheeks tearstained. You lick your lips and look her straight in the eye. You bloody coward. You bloody _fucking_ coward.

"Well?" she asks again, voice pitiful. She hits your chest with both fists, each pound weakening until she falls forward onto you, hands sliding up and gripping your shirt. She completely breaks down on your chest, holding your shirt tightly and just sobbing. _Do something, Draco, you git. _

Slowly, you put one arm around her, uncomfortably patting her arm with the other. Pansy's been your friend for a long time—even your girlfriend, at one point—but you've never seen her like this. Not breaking down and crying like she is now. Not since the war.

"I h-h-hate you," Pansy sobs. You know she means it but she doesn't pull away and neither do you. You weren't ever _mean_ to her, but you were bloody terrible to her and that's something you shouldn't expect her to forgive. She loves you, you prat, and everyone knows it. But you gave it all up. You gave up what could've been… for what? _Friendship? _You don't even want to be her friend. She just hangs around you so that she can breathe the same air as you once in a while, hear your voice once in a while. Just to keep her hopes up. To squash that pinning feeling in her chest.

"I know," you say, unsure of if she heard you. Everyone hates you.

_What happened to Parkinson?_

_Is Malfoy hugging her?_

_She seems upset…_

_Well she _is _crying._

Even the Slytherins are starting to gossip about you. You used to relish in that. Your own House, talking about you like you were some kind of god. But now it's more like you're scum on their shoes, giving Slytherin a bad name. Making girls cry. Making girls hate you. Making _Pansy_ hate you.

"I h-hate you s-s-so much," she sobs, holding onto you more tightly. It should hurt, it really should, but it doesn't. You don't care. And that's the worst part. You're so bloody used to people hating you that you don't care when Pansy says it. You don't care that Pansy hates you and you don't care if anyone else hates you. Because you _deserve_ it. You deserve all the hate in the world.

"I know," you say again. And she pulls away suddenly, anger flaring in her teary eyes again.

"Is that all you can say?" she demands, tears still falling to her cheeks and dripping off of her nose and landing on the common room floor. "You _know_? You don't know, Draco!"

You look away. You watch her tears collect at her feet. They spot the carpet around her shoes, like the first raindrops of a thunderstorm staining cement. And the first raindrops they are. Pansy's confrontation is the calm before the storm; her yelling and hitting is simply a taste of what is to come, dear Draco. You'd better prepare yourself—it's going to be a bumpy ride.

Neither you nor Pansy had noticed Goyle slip into the common room. He overheard Pansy telling you she hated you and saw you be an utter git. He grinds his teeth now, in his dormitory, scorning you violently in his thoughts. This is the beginning of Gregory Goyle's plot and the climax of your downfall (or perhaps uprise.)

Spring comes early. You sit in the courtyard with Pansy, sleeves rolled up to your elbows and sweater folded on your lap. You've welcomed the spring warmth with open arms, unable to handle the chill from other students along with the chill of winter. The year is almost over but it's harder than ever to keep a straight face at the sneers and the whispers. They still hurt you, don't they, Draco? You still can't handle it.

_He'll be gone soon._

_Hopefully._

_I still can't believe no one's done anything to him._

_Oh, they will._

_When?_

_Soon._

Pansy hasn't cried since that night in the common room. Not in front of you, at least. She cries herself to sleep and when you're distant toward her and after Potions she always goes to the girls' lavatory and cries and cries in front of Moaning Myrtle. Myrtle strokes her hair with a cold hand and giggles at her, telling her that she's silly and stupid just like you.

Goyle doesn't speak to you. Not even when you call him Greg like you did when you were kids. He grunts and makes a point to slam his shoulder into you whenever he walks by. Your left side is bruised constantly because of this; his brute force crashing into you on a daily basis as you walk to the right and he to the left. You act like it doesn't hurt. It does.

"NEWTs are coming up."

Potter makes a point to talk to you now. He's even followed you into the library, talking quietly through the shelves when you draw a book from its designated place. You nod, pale eyes searching his brilliant irises for a moment before you turn and walk to a table, spreading your parchment and laying the book on the free area. He sits across from you and does the same.

He'll make comments about anything. About how he didn't know that a certain spell did one thing or did another even though you know he knows it. Then he'll comment on something about Potions or Transfiguration and flip through his book. He'll ask you if you want to walk with him when you're done studying and you always refuse—politely, of course, because you're a good boy.

The gossip dies down when Harry's around. But it spikes when he leaves. It grows louder as you exit and it spreads like wildfire; it follows you through the forest of corridors.

_What is with Potter?_

_Making amends, I assume._

_Didn't he already bail the Malfoys out of Azkaban?_

_Prob'ly still feels guilty. _

_He's always been _that _type._

That type? You wonder what they mean. What exactly was Potter's type now? Did he continue to be the hotshot hero, driven into fame from the night he lived, the days he defeated the Dark Lord and the day that he finished off Voldemort for good. The name makes you cringe. It makes bile rise in your throat and you will the vomit from your pliant bowels with a bit of help from your fingers. You cringe when the acid burns your throat, burns your hands. It hits the water in the toilet basin soundlessly and you half wonder when you'd even entered the lavatory.

"Draco?" a nasally voice coos. A ghost's head emerges through the stall wall. Moaning Myrtle floats through completely, finding a spot above the toilet to float around. She tilts her head and looks at you curiously.

"Fine," you say, flushing the toilet. She huffs, crosses her arms, and watches you stand and exit the stall. You wash your hands and rinse your mouth, spitting and rinsing and repeating until the taste of vomit is gone. As you leave, you wipe your hands on your trousers. Your luck is shot. The first person you see is Potter; it's been long since you'd parted ways with him.

"You're pale," he says.

"Always am," you reply.

"Paler than normal," he clarifies.

"Yeah," is all you say.

You both stand there for the longest time; you and Harry, staring at one another but not speaking. It's a different kind of stare than you'd shared with Potter before. Most were glares and glowers or looks of pity and distance.

"Draco," he says. When did you become Draco to him? But, when did _he_ become Harry to you? You make a small noise of acknowledgement, a small hum in the back of your throat, and look to him. He apologizes again and you think that you don't deserve it. Because you don't—you're right about some things, it seems. You don't deserve Harry's forgiveness or apologies, just like you don't deserve Pansy's love but deserve her hatred.

"How's your mum?" he's never asked about your family before. Until recently, all he'd done was scorn your family; scorned your mother, your father—and you, especially.

"Fine," you answer stiffly.

"And your dad?" he's looking at you with inquisitive eyes, bright green searching your placid grey as if there's more to his question than the state of your parents.

"Fine," you answer again.

"How are you?" you then see his true purpose and you almost sneer. You almost snap at him like you would just last year, but you hold your tongue. You clench your teeth and stare at him.

"How do you think I am, Harry?" his name feels unfamiliar on your mouth; he's always been Potter—never Harry, never anything else. You almost say his name again, just to test it out and see how different it feels again. He stares at you, the inquiring gaze overtaken by the surprise of what you've just called him. He's taken aback—truly taken aback.

"I don't think you're doing well." Harry finally speaks and he finally looks away.

Oh, look, Draco—he _cares_. Isn't that sweet? All these years of loathing you and now he finally gives a rat's ass about you. Maybe next he'll finally be your friend. He's only seven years short, yeah? That's not so bad, is it? Seven years isn't that long in comparison to the lengths of times you've waited for other things. Like Daddy to finally tell you he loves you—took him eighteen years, didn't it? At least Harry will be your friend. At least he'll care about you. But you've already got Pansy for that, don't you? And you've got Blaise to tell you you're a prat—is that caring? In Blaise's own way, yeah, it is. You've got Goyle, too, even if he hates you. He hates you because he cares. Well, not about you, but about Pansy. Who you're a prat to, by the way. Thought I should tell you, considering Blaise isn't here to do so.

"For once," you say carefully, "you've hit the bull's eye."

You begin to walk away, turning on the sharp heels of your shoes and having all the will in the world to just walk off and go to the dungeons and maybe sit with Pansy for a while when she reads by the fire. Or maybe sit with Blaise in the dormitory while he sits in silence, brooding expression on his features, and you blither on about every other thing or just sit in his aural aura of quietness and say nothing.

You're so lost in your thoughts of what you'll do, you don't even notice Harry walking with you.

"So where are we going, Draco?" he asks. You look at him skeptically. _We_? When have you and Potter ever been a _we_? You stop. And then you stare.

"We?" you say, still staring. He shrugs.

"'Figured you could use some company."

He's been spending so much time with you lately, you hadn't even realized. But you'd really come to enjoy his company and cautiously agree to go someplace with him. It's a long walk through the corridors and down staircases; even through the maze of this labyrinth of a rebuilt school, you don't end up in the dungeons. But in a corridor on the third floor. Harry laughs, looking around the dimly lit hall.

"What's so funny?" you ask, looking around. Did Peeves scrawl something across the walls? Was he laughing at you?

"It's just… Hermione, Neville, Ron and I got in here first year…" his laughter died down. Then he frowned slightly. "It was the night you falsely challenged me to a wizard's duel."

You frown too and sit on a bench. He sits next to you.

"I was an immature child," you say. "I was trying to get your attention," you laugh listlessly, "because, at that point, I still wanted you to be my _friend_."

You smile wanly; it sounds ridiculous now, doing so much over a denied friendship, but at that point in your life, and to your eleven-year-old self, it was the end of the world. You'd never been denied before; Harry was the first person to serve rejection up hot and hand it to you on the dirtiest plate. You hadn't been exactly friendly either, but you'd been the type to impress and never be impressed; to show off and be applauded by a group of lackeys and cheered on when you scorned others for what they didn't have and what you did. Of course, your fall from grace had certainly squashed that part of you; you were a nobody. Scorned by your peers, scorned by the Ministry, the media. The power you once held is now meaningless and soiled. You are nothing.

"Friend…" Harry trails off, as if he's taking a walk down memory lane.

"Yeah," you laugh sarcastically. It's a brief, sharp laugh that masks the one you'd always had.

And then he… kisses you. And for a moment, you kiss him. But he pulls away.

"I always wondered what it was like," he murmurs.

"What what was like?" you repeat, narrowing your eyes.

"Kissing a bloke," he says.

You kiss again and again; so much that you and Harry spend the night kissing on a bench in the middle of the deserted, once-forbidden corridor on the third floor. Of all things that you thought would happen after the war and of all things that had happened after the war, this was not an event that you'd expected. You were ready for the hatred and animosity; it stung, but you knew it was coming every time. You'd expected the professors to look at you hesitantly; remember you as a cocky first year and then as one of _them_ and now as this broken, confused boy that you are now. Harry's kindness hadn't been expected; _this_ hadn't been expected. He was Potter, Harry Potter—the boy who lived. The boy who vanquished Voldemort.

When you finish kissing Harry you go back to the dungeons and he goes back to the tower. You don't speak as you go your separate ways. Goyle is in the common room when you enter. The smile on your lips that you hadn't noticed falters as he glowers.

"Draco," he says coolly.

"G-Greg." You sound taken aback; _scared_, almost. You stare at him like a deer in headlights, pale irises enveloping tiny pupils.

"You made her cry again." Goyle is talking about Pansy and you know it; you'd been especially distant toward her today. You feel a twinge of remorse but the emotion doesn't break your fearful expression. Greg sounds beyond angry—beyond livid, even. His voice is steely and murderous, eyes dark and unforgiving. You're not sure how he managed to bypass Azkaban. Your family had changed sides; your mother had saved Harry; you'd fought along with your classmates and teachers against the Death Eaters in the last moments of the final battle.

The Ministry approves.

The remaining Death Eaters don't.

Goyle wants revenge—you just don't know it yet.

"I did?" you gulp, waiting to see how he'll handle you and your obvious fear. Goyle says nothing more; he grunts and stands, striding past you to the boys' dormitory. His shoulder crashes into yours with enough brute force to twist you to the side and throw you off balance. As you stumble to regain it and stand upright, you watch him go. He mutters something—a mantra, a chant, to himself as he goes up the stairs and into the dormitory.

He used to be your roommate. He used to be your friend. You're not sure when things went wrong or if they'd ever been right. You sit on one of the large, stuffed-just-the-right-amount couches and rest your head on the silver, satin pillows. The fabric of the couch is a green so dark it nearly rivals the pitch black of your trousers in the dim light of the common area. You doze off eventually, unmotivated—scared, even—to go up to your dormitory and, the next morning, you're awoken by a group of rowdy third years that silence almost immediately when you lazily open your eyes and stare at them rather murderously.

They push past each other and out of the common room, muttering to each other.

_He scares me._

_Don't be such a wimp._

_Did you see the look in his eyes?_

_He probably had that look when he tortured people._

_Shhh! He can hear us!_

You get up and go to your room, finding it empty for the exception of Blaise, who looks at you with bored, blank eyes.

"Draco." His voice is cool and steady, as it always is.

"Yes, Blaise?" yours is far from the indifferent tone Blaise's holds. He's been consistently unbothered and distant since you'd first met him; though, if affected by his emotions, it's rumored that he's a beast—Pandora's Box unleashed with no remorse or second thoughts.

"Dozing off on the couches again?" it's meant to be a question, open ended for you to confirm or deny, but the apathetic atmosphere left by Blaise's voice gives it a feel of finality; that he's stating a fact, not inquiring of your sleeping location. "You haven't fallen asleep anywhere but the dormitory since sixth year."

You have no answer; what should you tell him? That Goyle scares you and you don't want to sleep in the same room as him? That you were exhausted and too tired to lumber up the stairs to the room? You're unsure and simply nod, choosing not to expand on the simple facts that he's laid out before you both. He turns back to the book in his lap, again uninterested in what you'd been up to the night before. He turns a page every six seconds—yes, you count—and his eyes dart across the paragraphs more quickly than you'd ever seen.

You dress, changing your wrinkled, slept-in clothes for fresh, identical ones. You leave Blaise to his book and leave the common room to its emptiness. Pansy is speaking to Goyle in the corridor when you exit the common room; she looks angry and is scolding him in a hushed tone. You can't hear her words but you can hear the distinctive hiss in her whisper and her stony expression radiates the anger you know that hiss contains. Goyle looks nearly as indifferent as Blaise always does, but with a little less class and a little more stupid. He looks at you and the stupidity morphs into malice; Pansy hisses at him again and walks over to you, shooting him pointed glances as she stands before you.

"Draco," she says, "how are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," you answer quietly, tilting your head toward her but keeping your pale eyes glued to Goyle, who stands cemented to the spot and glares at you all the while.

"I'm well, too," she smiles and answers even though you didn't ask her, you prat.

You walk Pansy to her class because she asks you to. You're skipping today, claiming to not feel well and wanting to see Madam Pomfrey about a stomach settling potion. Pansy nods and practically skips into the classroom, wishing you well and telling you that she hopes you feel better soon. You don't go to the infirmary, but instead leave the school and wander the grounds. The Gryffindors, apparently, don't have class this morning and avoid you like the plague on the path around the lake. The sun is shining and reflects across the surface of the water brilliantly, making the swampy, ugly water look almost beautiful. You have no idea of what lurks below that surface but you have no desire to know, either.

What happens next catches you completely off guard; with everyone you pass taking such measures to avoid breathing the same air as you, you didn't expect someone to clot you on the back, forcing you down to the ground in a mess of sand and grass. You can't even see their face as they flip you over and their hands come around your neck. You'd known that coming back to Hogwarts meant trouble, but you'd never thought that trouble would be so life threatening and so… Slytherin. It's a Slytherin who's got their hands around your neck, willing the air from your lungs and life from your body.

You blink away the darkness around the edges of your vision, desperate to rid yourself of the blurry tunnel vision and desperate to know the face of your assailant. And it's… oh, Merlin, it's _Goyle_. His face is twisted and contorted in an angry sneer, his eyes set on yours; set on watching the life dim and hoping to see the glint disappear. Your eyes begin to loll back as his hands clench tighter around your esophagus and you protest feebly, trying to push his stronger arms away with one hand and the other fumbling, trying to find your wand.

"_Stupefy!_"

Goyle's weight is suddenly lifted from you; you recognize the voice, sort of, but your brain is too foggy to put a name or face to the voice. Flickering between consciousness and unconsciousness, you only hear the broken sentences of worried words and barely feel the fingers to your neck, desperate for a pulse. Abruptly, four hands lift you, one on either arm and either side, helping you to your feet as the owners of the hands begin to walk. Your feet drag in the snow; a younger version of yourself would have worried over the condition of the expensive leather adorning your toes.

When you next rouse, you find yourself in the hospital wing. Potter's at your side, pensive and worried. Years, centuries, eons ago you would have craved this—Potter, at your side. Potter, worrying for you. Potter, your friend. Now, he's just sympathetic; you have no friends because you don't consider Blaise or Pansy to be your friends. Pansy does nothing but fawn over you with a lovesick look in her eyes and a lovesick tone in her voice. Blaise doesn't care, or at least he doesn't appear to, forever solemn and forever monotonous.

"Potter?" you speak, voice weak and struggling to carry to his ears.

Immediately, he turns. Perhaps, after running from so many evil forces for so long, he's developed better hearing than you thought he did.

"You're awake…" he looks relieved and a smile spreads across his lips.

Your answer is a nod, followed by a lackluster request for a drink of water and perhaps some hot tea. Madam Pomfrey examines you again, making sure that you're in good health before she releases you with a clean bill of health. You don't ask Potter how long you were there; the calendar on the wall tells you that it's been three days. Pansy will worry and Greg will only be more furious; you know this and you're scared to leave the sanctuary of Potter's presence for the dangers of the dungeons. Pansy won't be able to stop Greg if he attacks again and no one else will try because no one else likes you… no one else cares. Even the whispers have stopped.

When you return to the dungeons, your greatest fears are met. Greg is waiting for you and he's livid; he has your wand, snapped into slivers, and throws the remains at your feet. You remain silent, scared. Be brave, Draco, be brave. Again, he takes your neck within his meaty palms. The drive that had you squirming and struggling three days ago is gone. You let the live slip through your veins as Greg chokes you. Instead of fighting, you remember what meant to you—your mother, an empty and nonexistent friendship.

You die with the ghost of Potter's kiss on your lips.

_Goodbye, Draco._

Greg spits on your corpse before he leaves.


End file.
